Blood Drunk Hunter
by Cyan Sung-Sun
Summary: A two-shot? Of Bloodborne. These are just the thoughts of the Good Hunter.
1. Chapter One

I looked down at my sword with a sneer. The Pthumerian Elder was dead, and I walked back to his chambers. The resonant bell still ringing as I walked through the corridor. If no one wanted my services then I would be gone.

My slight disappointment was hypocritical as I put up with that useless prospector; Olek was it? Dithering fool did naught but cower in fear against the fire creature. I even had to drag him to the elder. Despicable hunter indeed.

I walked until I found myself at the lantern, the Kirkhammer resting on my back pleasantly. Odd since such a heavy weight as that would have had me struggling to budge it an inch before I found myself in this body. I suppose the entire situation was odd.

A lady dressed in black church garbs in a graveyard? With that gigantic block on her back? With high heels? Madness.

I held out my hand to the lantern and vanished. Disappearing from the labyrinthine graveyard of grotesque half humans. Before being in this game and while I was in it I hated the Pthumerians. Now I met them face to face? I was sad my Kirkhammer didn't obliterate their frail and anemic limbs in just a swing. Feeling the teeth of a werewolf in my neck was better than even looking at the supposed superhumans.

I hadn't always had this strength, and the cost of getting it due to my changed body shook me. But it was far better than becoming one of them.

I hated Yharnam most of all. It wasn't the crazed idiots who tried to kill me, the corpses or the unreasonable populace who were still sane. It was the silence that got to me. So I kept singing to ward off the constant silence.

As I approached the standing doll I still sang, even when I heard the instruments of the dream. "A shave and a rinse, just for her high society, she brought her high society..." I calmed down a little. Still shivering. It wasn't an emotion. I don't think so anyway.

I raised a hand in greeting to the standing doll, to which she responded with a slow tilt of her head. She'd get it soon enough. For now I approached her and did my usual.

The transaction of blood. Using divine if heretical blood I bolstered myself. More strength. Improving my body through the spilt blood and broken bodies of my victims of euthanasia and genocide. It was a miracle, this power and its capabilities. The blood of the gods. In my body. In my veins, in my mind. Enough to kill the Gods themselves.

I grinned maliciously at that thought. But I shook my head and started talking to the doll of this dream, discussing this and that till we arrived at an important part of our conversation. "Hunters have told me of the church. Of the Gods and their love. But, do the Gods love their creations? I am a doll created by you humans, would you ever think to love me? Of course, I do love you, isn't that how you've made me?"

I figured out how cracking a joke with her would go. Poorly. But still I figured I'd make an attempt this time. But then I reconsidered. Yharnam got to me, stuff like this I wasn't good at anymore. My shaking got a little worse. It was more like I was vibrating. The sort of shaking you got when you were cold, but constantly, everywhere, small and insignificant. So small it didn't effect my swings but I could still feel it. I was robbed of my words and voice by Yharnam.

Against the crippling madness and violence I lost a part of myself. I couldn't smoothly interact with anyone anymore. I knew what to do but it'd come off awkwardly. I stood silent, looking straight at her in silence. That was fine. Both of us were inept, we knew some things without being told about it. Like my apathy to her subject.

We knew when the conversation ended, once it did I made my up the stairs to the cottage on the hill. I could feel her turn her head to watch me go up, even though she wasn't in my line of sight anymore. "Ah, right, I forgot to thank you." I turned to her and curtsied. "Thank you very much." She returned the gesture and I left once it ended. Going up the steps till I saw him. Gehrman. I wasn't really in a mood to talk to him but I'd do it if I had to.

Ascend to Oedon chapel. That was all I gathered from our conversation. I wasn't really in the mood to listen to anything else. I went through the other door and took a right, careful to not trample the flowers and went forward.

I found a nice patch of dirt and laid down. My ultimate comfort. Since starting this I've never had the chance to lay down. Always stood up and fighting monsters and beasts. I sat back and slowed down. Feeling the shakes subside and thinking dull slightly.

It had been a long time since I realised what the shaking did. Before the blood starved beast I think. It was ascending a staircase only to be shot at. I walked out the way of it since the two dogs up ahead were more of a threat. As I pulverized his body did I only piece together everything.

The shaking was just me moving quickly. Musket or not it was still a gun. Then I outpaced Djura's Gatling gun. Then I discovered the next improvement on my body.

Quickening. A "lost" hunter art. It was lost alright, but only to a certain extent. Quick dashing into Djura as he fired his church gun I realised what I had done once I reached him. Quickened miniscule parts of myself to let the bullets pass through me.

I still had enough mental capacity left to push him off the roof.

Faster body, faster thinking, turning bullet sized parts of myself into mist, a finger strong enough to pierce the skin, meat and bone of anyone without the Godly blood coursing through their veins. My body was a machine. I was never left gasping for breath, was never hungry nor thirsty.

Except for the metaphysical hunger within me. I had intended to wear the church garb to better display my hypocritical nature. To wear it as I ripped apart an insane denizen with the Beast Claws. Now I had an unending thirst for blood and victory. I wanted to conquer with bloodshed.

I stood back up and both shelved and embraced my wants, shunting my bloodlust for later. Who was next? Go deeper within the graveyard of alien freaks or rip apart another creature in Yharnam? The eye of a blood drunk hunter also lay within my left palm, rolling around and spreading some liquid on my palm.

It must be time. I could feel it, Amygdala was within my grasp. But was it worth it right now? Perhaps.

I rolled the eye around some more before I started playing with it in the mud. Red hair obscured my vision a little. I played with it some more. I was always obsessed with texture. The right amount of fluid to squeeze out while being delightfully firm.

I got on my knees and kept playing. Dragging it through the dirt was fun. You got to fill in parts of it with dirt and mud and soil. The best part was that there was always fluid for it to give. And if you did it just right it was like it was crying.

I began to nibble at it with my molars. Left right? Who cares. I started biting down on it from all sides. Like an encircling army drawing something in deeper. It was completely inside my mouth now. Getting chewed by all the teeth. I swallowed.


	2. Fruits Of Blood

I awoke once more. Angry but victorious.

I walked through the church with a calm ease, all shaking gone. I had controlled it. And all thanks to following the will of the godly blood inside me and shunning the instincts it bid me to succumb to.

I walked with the soft and addictive clack of high heels. White this time.

I had abandoned my black garb a long while ago. I was cloaked in holy white vestments of a true believer. And as I walked away from the church and into rivers of blood I felt all the resentment of those who would call themselves members of the church. For unlike them I realized the truth.

I was God. I did not need a pretender idol to hold my hand and assuage my fears. No. Moon Presence and poor forgotten Ebrites would fall and turn into mud and dirt before me and my power...yes...and I would be the center of this universe.

I knew not how I came to be here nor the how but with opportunity at hand there was no time to waste. I hunted what should have been the weakest of all the godly kin.

The Orphan of Kos. Ah, yes...how fantastic that a failure like that, an aborted fetus be so godly. How appropriate it was that it embodied the shape of man. It gave me more and more confidence that the fetus of cosmic gods took that form. It emboldened me to believe I was on the right path. How brilliant its dead mothers kidney was far stronger than my Kirkhammer. Perhaps this was because I had yet to sculpt a church-hammer in my chosen ideology and mold?

Yes...as I walked across the path and approached the old hag from behind I found the idea quite suited me. As I pulled an empty syringe and drained my blood into the arm sized syringe I raised my hand and thrusted it into the hag's spine I angled it so that much of her blood spilt onto me.

"Quickly! While the wound is still fresh heretic! Bleed upon me!" I screamed. Dropping my syringe I began placing my left hand around her spine and started squeezing as hard as I could.

"GOAR! GUR! GEERRRRAAAA!!! HUUURKKK!!" Now started the most disappointing part of this process. The heretics who were subject to this technique of mine were obnoxiously fond of squealing and screaming. The older they were the worse it was. Louder and croakier to a horrid extent that I started to flail around with my arms and hands instead of snap her spine like I intended. "HHHHrrrrr...kkkkk..."

"Ah...finally." My relief was palpable in voice, body and face. My arms went slack and I extricated them from the small elderly lady. A task harder than it sounded as I was forearm deep into a hunchback that somehow heaped some arcane power into her body.

I closed my eyes and sighed and began the next phase of the technique. As I opened my eyes and gazed upon her frail little body I kneeled down and began to get to work. I hadn't ever done it with a hag before so the process was exceedingly different than usual.

As I began to rip into her body with the Blades of Mercy I tried to remember what it was I previously thought about with such vigor that I suddenly became arms deep in some wench.

Ah. My own Kirkhammer. Exactly what shape would it be in? Hmm...a heptagon seemed like a really good idea frankly. There was just so much reach when compared to a rectangle or square. But it really would loose some of that oomph that I've come to adore and appreciate from my much beloved Kirkhammer. But my followers could not wield a square. So perhaps an enneagon? Now THAT seemed like a moronic idea. Unless I...eureka! I jolted upward and crushed the little hag's rib bone in my excited grasp.

What if I just add spikes?! That would take care of it's lack of damage issues. I tossed the remains of the rib away and blew the powder away from my impromptu work station and got back to severing meat from bones. But I still hadn't quite solved my issues. What made my church-hammer a trick weapon? Perhaps I'd replace the sword with a metal staff or a dexterous double blade? Hm.

I sighed once again and gazed at what was arrayed before me. I don't know why I thought for an instant that this might not work. Next time I should learn to take the arms and legs into account.

I grabbed the boneless husk and hurled her some twenty meters away from my work station. Couldn't let any blood contaminate this now could we.

I giggled as I started arranging the bones to make a chalice. It was funny that I didn't trust her blood. But then again she had most likely never received church approved blood. And if she didn't have the blood of hunters then I couldn't let it contaminate the basin that I made from her skull. Speaking of...

I buried it sideways into the ground that I was kneeling on and grabbed the sword of the church-hammer. They say to measure twice and cut once, which was especially true here. I needed to cleanly remove her jaw. Which, after a single cut of my sword, did with pixel perfect precision. I then proceeded to grab one half of the Blades of Mercy and began to use its point to did points in a rather meticulous manner.

So meticulous I paused my work to hold the desired bone up to my eye and measure. I began with some arm bones so I was fine. But if I was going to proceed with this then I needed to shave some points into her leg and rib bones. I placed both of her forearm bones before me and cut into the middle of them. Perfect. Now I had four evenly sliced pieces.

I grabbed the other set and did the same. Eight now. That was enough actually. I thought I'd have needed more.

Red hair fell before me as I reached over for her skull. I didn't bother setting my hair beneath the hood again. Instead I started placing her bones inside the points that I carved into her skull. The procedure required the patient have a perfectly stable skull in order for the fluid and the accompanying object to settle in without causing any harm to the patient.

I began trying to pick up the syringe as I observed Ms. Adeleen's behaviour. She was calm and sedate despite the fact it took me four clumsy tries in order to obtain the syringe. Whether the patients nature was due to being unflappable despite the lack of sedatives or painkillers or simply because of constant eye contact was unknown. Blessedly the patient made no remarks so it's unlikely that a complaint will be forwarded to my superiors after the operation is performed.

I began to insert and inject Ms. Adeleen's skull with the appropriate fluid and hoped that if any complaints were to be forwarded they would be brushed aside due to a lack of assistants and peers on this delicate and vital surgery. I was glad the syringe was so distinctive with its shape. It was almost as long as my arm, and in a prestigious but tragically understaffed hospital like ours I knew the fluids weren't tampered with or changed in any way. It was good to trust in my colleagues. They always had my back and sympathized with and helped me through any problems I had.

But I had none of them with me today. So it was a miracle how I was doing this all on my own without tremors. "Inserting object now Ms. Adeleen." Not so much as a twitch from her finger or foot. She was a hard woman this patient of mine. She was going to make it out okay, which was good as the object was unusually large this time.

I carefully rinsed the object with the fluid on all sides using the fluid present in the patients mind and scrubbed with the utmost care over any malformations that I observed in the patients skull. There were five parts that stuck out. I just had to remove them which was easy as this object would easily crush them with a gentle sweep. But I couldn't afford a gentle sweeping of her cranium or I would damage Ms. Adeleen.

I had to patiently scrub at these specific parts for minutes and remove the object to check that it was gone. Then I had to carefully but quickly pull them out before the oddly shaped pieces of bone made contact with her brain. The fluid would take all of the powder away with it and helped...sterilise...the...object.

It felt like an hour had passed but Ms. Adeleen gave no indication that the procedure was happening at all. I quickly glanced down and saw her sleeping. I couldn't afford to check her pulse as the operation had to be done quickly but I could see her breathing. Remarkable. To sleep under these conditions...

"Well the surgery will be fine anyway Ms. Adeleen. There's only one more to go now." I gently eased the large spherical object back in and began rubbing the last spot out of existence.

It took about nine minutes and all I had left to do was drain the fluid. For...disposal right?

I got up off my sore knees and grabbed my cannon. Reloading it was surprisingly tricky as you had to put the cannonball down the barrel. It really wasn't an easy fit either. Never mind the problems you'd come across when trying to apply quicksilver to it.

There were two ways to do it. Drill a hole into it and fill it with hunter blood or soak the entire cannonball with enough hunter blood that it seeps inside. The latter produced the best results. Especially if you had the bone marrow ash to spare. Then you could fill the ENTIRE cannonball with the ash. Another neat trick was to scatter ash into the barrel of the cannon. The ash inside the barrel would stick to the cannonball as it traveled out and amplified its piercing and explosive effects even further.

I was fond of sinking the entire cannonball into a vat of my own blood when I was on the field like this. There was always a willing sacrifice around the corner to both replenish my health and act as a receptacle for the blood I had traded away to stimulate my cannon and its rare few shots.

As I turned away from the blood filled and shattered skull to reclaim my items I wondered how I could make my cannonballs. I wasn't paying for subpar ammunition if I had a say in it.

I picked up my Kirkhammer and cannon and prepared to face what else this "Nightmare" had to offer. All I had reaped so far were fruits of labour with none of the labour involved.

I walked away from the hag's skull. All of the makeshift basins I made for my cannonballs ended up like that. Ruined, with the blood inside wasted...

 **Post script: I wrote up another since reviews were positive and one person even followed it. I had written this one in the middle of the night. Took me about an hour an it's one in the morning.** **I feel I should tell you the song last chapter was: Enon - High Society. This chapter was written with She Past Away in the background.**


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